Perfect Crime. Helen Fields

seven hundred suicides in Scotland every year, more men than women, the biggest group being Stephen’s age category.’

      ‘How did you talk him down?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘There was someone he cared about, a young woman. I’m afraid I can’t remember her name now, but it’s in my notes if you need it. Often, in the heat of the moment, the details get a bit blurry for me. They’d been in a serious relationship, though recently split. I was persuading him to call her. I find that making a meaningful contact often changes a person’s mind about ending their life. He slipped on the railings before making the call, realised he didn’t want to die in that moment and I was able to help him back up.’

      Callanach felt the room slide, seeing Ava slipping through his arms again, certain he was going to drop her, already feeling the dreadful loss of her before she’d gone. The potential for grief had hit him with overwhelming force.

      ‘Are you all right?’ Maclure asked him.

      ‘Yes, sorry. I was imagining how scary that must have been. For him and for you,’ Callanach replied.

      ‘We’re simply trained to do the very best we can. If we took responsibility for everyone we came into contact with … well, you wouldn’t last very long at this job. I was really pleased when he came down. Obviously, the police had to question him, but I gave a statement and spoke on his behalf, asked the police to consider not prosecuting for the knife. They said they’d refer the matter to get a decision quickly.’

      ‘Why did he do it?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘Stephen was bipolar. His prescribed drugs weren’t helping consistently, which is something many sufferers experience. All premature deaths are tragedies, but when they’re caused by a neurotransmitter problem in the brain, how do you come to terms with that as a family member? We can put men on the moon but medicine isn’t advanced enough to treat this. Such a waste.’ Maclure shook his head, lacing his fingers behind his hair and giving the ceiling a long look. ‘Sorry. You’re here for help, not to listen to me moaning.’

      ‘I think you’re entitled,’ Tripp said. ‘I can’t imagine how you do your job every day.’

      ‘Trying to make a difference, same as you,’ Maclure said. ‘I still see a better side of humanity than if I worked in a bank. What else can I tell you?’

      ‘What was your last contact with him?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘I saw him twice after the suicide attempt. The first time was two days afterwards. He came here to see me and thank me for what I did. I told him what we could offer, tried to persuade him to get counselling, but with bipolar disorder that feels like a drop in the ocean. To Stephen’s credit, he agreed, although I realised he was reluctant. The last time I spoke to him, he phoned to say he’d changed his mind and didn’t think the counselling would help. He cancelled the session.’

      ‘Are there any notes?’ Tripp asked.

      ‘Yup, I’ll get a copy for you. As he’s deceased, confidentiality ceases to apply. I couldn’t talk him into getting any more help. There’s a limit to how pushy we can be, or we push people away from us at the time when they need us most. It’s a fine line.’

      Callanach bet it was. Trying to persuade people to open up to you, knowing it would initially at least be pouring salt on their wounds. Wanting to help people who wanted to be left alone.

      ‘Did Stephen talk to you about any other problems in his life? Anything external to the bipolar disorder? Debts, addictions, conflicts, for example?’ Callanach tried to make it sound casual, but there was no way of hiding the fact that they were digging.

      ‘None, although I didn’t have much time to explore that. He certainly didn’t reveal anything to me. He seemed like a genuinely nice man, to be honest. Likeable, thoughtful. He left his donor card at the roadside in case anyone could be helped after his death.’ Maclure smiled and Callanach was drawn to him.

      Maclure had a gentleness about him that was all warmth and ease, which reminded him of Ava. The two of them would get on like a house on fire, Callanach thought. Maclure would be the perfect foil to her stresses, and Maclure would like Ava’s natural intelligence, passion and empathy. Neither was the least bit bothered by social structure or setting out to impress. They did their jobs only to serve. Ava would like him.

      As soon as the thought crossed Callanach’s mind, another part of him objected. Ava meeting a man she might be drawn to would mean sharing her again, and Callanach had been looking to spend more time with her. While he’d been going out with Selina, it had been hard to invest in his friendship with Ava. Their evenings out watching old movies at the cinema, and eating and drinking at the city’s lesser-known treasures, had kept him sane while he’d been settling into life in Scotland. He wasn’t ready to let anyone else do those things with Ava yet. At least he could admit it to himself. More than that, Ava’s private life was none of his business. He had no idea why he’d been thinking about her in the context of finding her a partner.

      Tripp was handing over an email address for Maclure to send the notes relating to Stephen Berry and offering thanks for his assistance. Callanach stood up and shook his hand, noting the lack of wedding ring, and wishing he could erase the image of Ava and Rune Maclure together.

      Callanach and Tripp made their way to the door, leaving Maclure to get back to work. As they were climbing into the car, there was a tap at the window. Tripp opened up.

      ‘I meant to ask,’ Maclure said. ‘Would you let me know when the funeral is? I’m not sure how much social contact Stephen had. I’d like to pay my respects. He should have people there to say goodbye to him.’

      ‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ Callanach replied. ‘I’ll make sure you’re notified, although it might not be for some time. There will have to be a fatal accident enquiry first.’

      ‘You’re not clear about what happened, then?’ Maclure asked.

      ‘Not yet. There are no witnesses and the forensics are difficult to interpret.’ Callanach chose the most vague phrase he could.

      ‘Poor Stephen. Still no peace for him. He was even mocked while he was contemplating suicide from the bridge. Can you believe some people? I worry about the human race.’

      ‘Sorry, he was mocked how and by whom?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘There was a man in the crowd, laughing, while Stephen was struggling to get himself safe. The police officers were nearer than me. I’m not sure who it was. I could hear but not see who was responsible.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Maclure,’ Callanach said. ‘We’ll be in touch about the funeral details when we have information.’

      They drove away in silence, contemplating how the landscape of Stephen’s death had shifted in the previous hour. The bipolar disorder provided a simple motive for suicide and the decision not to proceed with counselling might well have been confirmation that Stephen was still struggling.

      ‘Phone the pathologist when we get back to the station, Tripp,’ Callanach said. ‘She’ll need to get hold of Stephen Berry’s medical records to check the bipolar disorder and hopefully that’ll tell us what medication he was taking. And speak to the officers at the Queensferry Crossing incident. See if any of them remembers a man laughing and get a description. It’s probably nothing, but the procurator fiscal will want it covered if there’s to be an inquiry.’

      Tripp’s phone rang. Callanach drove on, cursing the traffic lights as Tripp answered it.

      ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Tripp muttered. ‘We’ll be back in quarter of an hour. Sure. I understand. Straight there.’ He ended the call.

      ‘What was that about?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘DCI Turner wants you back at the station as quickly as possible, sir. We’re not to stop anywhere, she says, and don’t talk to anyone else. Direct to her office. She sounded weird, to be honest.’

      ‘Weird,